


Day Five

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Confessions, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/It_Came_from_Beneath_the_Sea">It Came from Beneath the Sea</a></i> is the film Dean's watching and if anyone has a better answer to the relationship between the three main characters at the end of the movie, I'd love to hear it. I won't believe it, but I'd love to hear it.</p><p>Okay, folks, this is the end of Act I.</p><p>But never fear! (Or fear a lot, depending.) There are at least two more stories of similar length coming. Act II and III, if you wish to push the metaphor; I'm working on the second and have notes for the third.</p><p>And, yes, I am gunning for the position as Queen of Unfinished Huge Story Arcs (<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/11230">QUHSA,</a> for short).</p><p>So think of this less as the end of a story and more of a...mid-performance break. A chance to wander out into the foyer, get a cocktail, perhaps do a little <a href="http://everything-gay-nothing-hurts.tumblr.com/">light reading</a>...then find your way back to your seat and find out what the hell happens next!</p></blockquote>





	Day Five

When Castiel wakes up, he immediately wishes he had not. The bells stuffed in his ears are ringing more loudly; his throat feels as though his last meal were crushed glass, not sandpaper; and getting up feels like more effort than the last time he had to move apartments. 

It takes him a moment to catch his balance but, once he does, he feels slightly better about his chances of making it to the bathroom. And then, perhaps, to the kitchen -- tea would be good. 

* * *

It is still raining, he can tell from the dim grey light filtering into the hallway from the living room and kitchen. but he has no idea what time it is. He pads slowly down towards the kitchen, neither expecting nor seeing Dean. Or Nellie, for that matter. 

He turns on the kettle, gets down a mug, and fumbles out a tea bag without bothering to check what sort of tea he will be making. Hot liquid is all he cares about right now - that, and perhaps some honey which might soothe his throat.

‘Hey, let me--’

Castiel spins around and the mug shoots out of his grip and shatters on the floor.

Dean pauses where he is a few feet away, a sea of broken porcelain at his feet, and glances around. ‘So where’s your dustpan?’

Castiel tries to speak and croaks instead. ‘By the stove.’

‘Got it. Why don’t you sit down --’ Dean reaches forward, grabs his arm, and steers him carefully around the fragments to a seat at the table. ‘--before you fall the hell over and we’ll give this another shot.’

Castiel sinks into the seat and watches Dean hop a little awkwardly over the remains and dig out the dustpan and hand-broom. ‘Why are you here?’

Dean doesn’t even glance up. ‘Said I would be.’

Castiel stifles a sneeze. 

Dean drops the shards in the trash, turns a light on under the kettle, and turns back to Castiel. He leans against the narrow counter next to the stove, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Say it before you pop.’

‘What?’

‘You don’t have a poker face, Cas. So say it.’

Castiel scowls and huddles into the chair. ‘What makes today different?’

‘You’re sick.’ Dean turns away, pulls two mugs out of the cupboard, and starts rifling through tea boxes.

‘I can look after myself.’

‘Yeah -- you do such a great job with that.’

‘There is no reason for you to stay because I am sick,’ Castiel says with as much dignity as he can muster while digging through his sweatshirt pockets for a tissue.

Dean doesn’t even bother to answer, just tosses the box of tissues from the kitchen counter onto the table. The moments pass in silence and the kettle starts to purr.

‘I...I do not _want_ you to stay because I am sick,’ Castiel says quietly, folding up the used tissue into a tiny packet and dropping it in the wastebasket. ‘I can look after myself, Dean. This is only a cold.’

‘You can’t stop your ex-boyfriend from walking the hell all over you,’ Dean responds, turning off the kettle just before it starts to whistle and pouring hot water. ‘I think a cold stands a good chance of beating you.’

‘Zach is not your problem.’ Castiel keeps his eyes fixed on his hands and only hears the mug set down in front of him. He hears Dean sit down in the other chair and finds he can imagine only too well how the other man has managed to arrange himself: one foot hooked around a chair leg, body alert and relaxed at the same time, a hand open on the table-- _No._

‘Why are you worth forty bucks, Cas?’

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut.

‘You want to know why I stayed? That’s why. Couldn’t get it out of my head. Why are you worth forty bucks? Seems pretty precise to me -- what’d he do: figure out how much gold you’ve got in your teeth? The resale value on your watch?’

‘It is...none of your business,’ Castiel grits out the words past a sore throat and clenched teeth.

‘Yeah, but I want to know anyway. You wanna know about my worst trick? I’ll trade you.’ Dean takes a sip of tea and adds conversationally, ‘Pretty cliched, if you want to know the truth. There was this truck stop outside of--’

‘Forty dollars is what he won on me. The bet, remember?’ Castiel opens his eyes and pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the nudge he gives to the table that sets both mugs of tea sloshing. ‘Forty dollars that I couldn’t -- _wouldn’t_ blow four boys in the showers. The gym showers. After class. Anyone could have walked in. There were offices across the hall, people walking by... It was...it was ten dollars a boy. I think he...he spent it on beer.’ 

He knew perfectly well Zach had: it had been Castiel’s first drink, his first drunk, and his first hangover. He remembered how the taste of the thin, sour beer -- expensive ale as he’d found out later -- hadn’t been enough to get the taste of skin and soap and sweat out of his mouth. 

Dean is staring at him, just moving to speak and Castiel goes on before Dean can say anything. ‘So we’re really not all that different. Except you did it for your father.’

‘And you did it for...a beer?’

Castiel closes his eyes and forces himself to speak slowly and quietly. ‘I did it because I wanted him to...to _like_ me. I was a fucking pathetic, lonely, _horny_ little fucking teenager and I wanted him to _like_ me.’ His voice is rising out of his control and he knows it. ‘And I don’t think you should complain about that too fucking much because without it you would be sleeping in the backseat of your goddamned car in a _junkyard_ somewhere!’ 

His voice gives out and he doubles over coughing, hands on his knees, grey creeping in at the edges of his vision.

Slowly, as the coughing fit grinds to a halt, he can hear Dean’s voice. ‘Okay, okay, I got it...don’t die on me, ‘kay, Cas?’

‘Then don’t ask stupid fucking questions when I’m sick,’ Castiel rasps, twisting his head so he can see Dean’s arm. The other man is standing close beside him -- holding him up, Castiel realises after a minute.

‘Got it. I promise. No more ‘f I can help it.’ Dean pauses for a moment, then offers: ‘I meant what I said -- ‘ll tell you ‘bout--’

‘God, no.’ Castiel hauls himself straight and plants a hand on Dean’s chest. ‘Please.’ He means to convey that it doesn’t matter, it isn’t important to him what Dean had to do -- less than ever with a rapidly climbing temperature but even through that fog, he can see the shift in Dean’s posture. _‘No--’_

‘S’okay, Cas. I get it.’ Dean shakes his arm slightly, a friendly gesture, and Castiel wants to whack him upside the head and then kiss him until he can’t breathe.

Instead, he shakes his head hard and then groans as the room dances around him. Closing his eyes, he clutches at Dean’s steady arm. ‘You don’t.’

‘No, I--’

‘Tell me any story you wish, Dean -- anything you want to tell me. Just...later?’ Castiel desperately wishes he wasn’t about to fall down but the buzzing in his ears is getting louder and he’s fairly sure he and the linoleum are about to become good friends.

He can hear Dean saying something but it disappears in the deep bass hum.

* * *

When he wakes up this time, it is to the sound of water sloshing and an engine, then a distant, cinematic scream. He stays as he is for a minute with eyes closed, testing out his surroundings. Bed -- yes, he is definitely in bed. These are his sheets and that’s the distinct feel of the comforter he recently had dry-cleaned. 

‘Y’know, did it ever occur to you this movie is one giant excuse for a three-way?’ Dean says conversationally.

‘What?’ Castiel turns himself around and blinks over the blankets. ‘I...what are you watching?’

‘It’s your movie, Cas.’

‘But I...’ He blinks at the television, pushing the sheets down over his chest. ‘I...a three-way?’ He tries to focus his eyes on the screen but he can’t make the man and woman look at all familiar. ‘How did you know I was awake?’

Dean shrugs. ‘Your breathing changed.’ He is curled up on the other side of the bed, a blanket pulled over his legs. Nellie has pooled herself against his opposite hip and there’s a book propped open on his knee. He looks down at Castiel. ‘How’re you feeling?’

Castiel runs a hand through his hair and grimaces, feeling tangles of dried sweat catch against his fingers. ‘Awful.’

Dean hums sympathetically. ‘Yeah...it’s pretty bad for a day or so. Sorry.’

‘What...why...’

‘Am I here?’ Dean smiles at him. ‘Don’t you get tired of asking the same question?’

‘Not when you don’t give me a good answer,’ Castiel snipes back, awkwardly shoving himself up against his pillows. His head still hurts and his throat feels scraped raw but the buzz in his ears is gone and he can focus his eyes.

‘Wanted to finish the movie.’

Castiel rubs his hands back through his hair again and leans back against the pillows, stretching his feet towards the foot of the bed. ‘Do you ever give a straight answer?’ He doesn’t really mean to say it aloud -- he’s still sleepy, foggy with the cold, and he thinks it but doesn’t mean to say it. 

He nearly chokes on his tongue when Dean is suddenly two inches from him, one knee on either side of Castiel’s hips, Nellie tipped off onto the floor and yowling indignantly.

Dean doesn’t seem angry, just -- intense and suddenly very much _there,_ green eyes dark and intent. Castiel jerks back against the pillows, tries to swallow against a throat gone sandpapery, and makes an abortive motion with his hand. ‘I...didn’t... I didn’t mean... I mean... Not that you...’

Dean speaks without seeming to notice that he’s interrupting. ‘I’ve given you more straight answers than anyone in the last ten years. And that includes my family.’

‘Oh. I...oh.’ Castiel becomes aware his hand is still flailing around and, at the same moment, Dean reaches out and catches it. He closes his fingers around Castiel’s and the abrupt warmth makes Castiel want to lean bodily against him. Forget heating pads, hot water bottles, feather comforters, flannel pants -- _this_ is what he wants.

Dean looks like he’s going to say something else -- but doesn’t, catching his lower lip between his teeth and worrying at the corner of it. He looks down at Castiel’s hand, cradles it gently between both of his and congestion is starting to have less and less to do with why Castiel can’t take a deep breath. 

He’s horribly afraid that Dean will shift _just_ the right way and notice something Castiel would rather he didn’t. Castiel keeps himself still as Dean’s fingers trace over captured knuckles and thanks his own foresight in buying a particularly _thick_ comforter last fall.

Dean rubs his thumb over Castiel’s wristbone. ‘And I don’t...I don’t know why.’

Castiel swallows hard. 

Dean is looking down at their intertwined hands and Castiel gets the sense he is almost talking to himself. ‘I mean -- why _you?_ I’ve had cute guys try the sympathy trick on me before --’ Dean tilts his head to one side and his voice takes on a sugary, over-sympathetic tone: ‘Oh, poor you, must’ve been terrible, have you heard of sexual healing?’ He snorts. 

‘I thought you hadn’t told--’ Castiel bites the tip of his tongue hard and stops himself.

Dean’s dark eyes refocus on him. ‘I didn’t have to say much.’ He shrugs, sits back on his heels. ‘I know you’ve been watching me -- I mean, I thought I could just-- I thought about -- I mean, you helped me out of a hell of a hole and I know I... I owe you for that.’ Dean scowls and stops. He looks down at Castiel’s hand, slowly running the pad of his thumb over each fingertip until Castiel thinks he might actually stop breathing. 

‘But I didn’t want to. _Don’t_ want to.’

Castiel tries to clear his throat, fails, and can feel tears pricking against the backs of his eyes. This is not _fair_ \-- if he’s not ill, he can take rejection as well as the next man but this is not _fair._

And just what the _hell_ does Dean think he’s doing if this is some elaborate excuse for not being attracted to him? Castiel tries to pull his hand free and think of something suitably cold and withering as a comeback. 

‘Hey.’ A long finger taps him on the cheekbone and Castiel flinches back and blinks at Dean.

‘What.’ Castiel swipes the back of his free hand over his forehead, trying to be subtle about wiping his eyes.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Dean informs him, looking half-irritated, half-amused.

‘I’m not at my best with riddles when I’m sick,’ Castiel says shortly, still trying to pull his other hand free. After a second or two, Dean lets go -- but only to lean forward, pressing his hand to Castiel’s cheek.

‘You’re warm...should get you some aspirin,’ Dean mutters, as if talking to himself, but he doesn’t move, stroking his thumb carefully over Castiel’s cheekbone. 

Castiel feels his breath catch and knots his own fingers in the sheets before he can do something catastrophically stupid with them -- like seeing if his hands bracket Dean’s hips as well as he thinks they might. ‘If this your idea of a come-on, you have the world’s worst timing.’

Dean’s expression freezes for a moment then he snorts with laughter. ‘Well...yeah, okay, maybe I do.’

Castiel stares at him and blurts out, ‘Are you crazy?’

‘Haven’t been before.’ 

‘You don’t even _know_ me! You-- I--’ Castiel splutters, too many words caught in his throat.

‘And you don’t know _me.’_ Dean raises his hands and lets them drop on his knees. ‘But you’ve let me sleep in your house, fed me, rescued me from your ex...’ His mouth twitches up at one corner. _‘And_ you can’t keep your eyes off my ass.’

Castiel blushes furiously. ‘That’s...that’s no reason to pretend you are attracted to me.’

‘’m not pretending.’ Dean is flushed, too. ‘’m _not_ \-- I --’ He hesitates, biting at his lip again. 

Castiel wants to reach out and stop him, soothe at the red, raw skin, find him some chapstick, make him stop hurting himself.

Dean stares at him for a long minute then shakes his head sharply. ‘Oh, fuck, Cas, ‘m no good at this! I never had a fucking-- Jesus, even your Zach’s had more experience at normal than me!’ Dean swings his leg over Castiel’s knees and props himself on the edge of the bed, elbows on his own knees, head on one hand, his fingers digging at the base of his skull. ‘I haven’t even... _thought_ about what normal looks like in...so many fucking years...’

‘Dean--’

‘’m a fucking nightmare, Cas, seriously.’ Dean starts counting things off on his fingers as if Castiel were arguing with him. ‘I snore, I’m fuckin’ _awful_ with laundry, I’m not patient, I--’

‘Dean.’

‘--and I _know_ I don't...feel this way because... It’s not just because you helped me out. I mean, I’m grateful, yeah, I’m not stupid but--’

Castiel gives up, reaches out, grabs Dean’s upper arm, and yanks him bodily backwards across the bed. Dean yelps and crashes rather awkwardly onto the pillows, his feet still off the edge of the bed over Castiel’s knees. He stares up at Castiel. ‘Uh -- okay.’

‘I am sick,’ Castiel informs him, pushing Dean’s legs over to his side of the bed. ‘You--’ He glances at the television. ‘--still have a good half of this movie to watch.’ 

Almost holding his breath, he lifts Dean’s arm around his own shoulders and curls against Dean’s side. 

He swallows hard before sending up a brief mental prayer and tucking his hand under Dean’s shoulder, making it a warm pillow. ‘And I...’ His voice is unsteady and he tries to disguise it with a cough. Dean is still, startled or angry or embarrassed, he can’t tell. ‘I am tired.’

Dean is still and silent for long enough that Castiel begins to be sure he has made a vicious miscalculation and feel the cold sink of humiliation in the pit of his stomach. Before he can move, though, Dean shifts, his hand squeezing around Castiel’s arm, and Castiel closes his eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

>  _[It Came from Beneath the Sea](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/It_Came_from_Beneath_the_Sea)_ is the film Dean's watching and if anyone has a better answer to the relationship between the three main characters at the end of the movie, I'd love to hear it. I won't believe it, but I'd love to hear it.
> 
> Okay, folks, this is the end of Act I.
> 
> But never fear! (Or fear a lot, depending.) There are at least two more stories of similar length coming. Act II and III, if you wish to push the metaphor; I'm working on the second and have notes for the third.
> 
> And, yes, I am gunning for the position as Queen of Unfinished Huge Story Arcs ([QUHSA,](http://archiveofourown.org/series/11230) for short).
> 
> So think of this less as the end of a story and more of a...mid-performance break. A chance to wander out into the foyer, get a cocktail, perhaps do a little [light reading](http://everything-gay-nothing-hurts.tumblr.com/)...then find your way back to your seat and find out what the hell happens next!


End file.
